


Stilinski Secrets

by Ribbon67



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:18:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbon67/pseuds/Ribbon67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the pack decided Stiles needed to be able to protect himself? What if Stiles wasn't willing to learn? Maybe there was a reason behind it. Just maybe, Stiles already knew how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stilinski Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> Lot's of secrets in this fic :P I've edited this majorly, the plot line is the same but hopefully some of the awful ness is removed. I will maybe write a second chapter eventually, but for now I think this ends pretty well. Hope you like!

Stiles had a secret. His life was a lie and he liked it that way. His dad knew his secret, of course, for it was his secret too. Stiles was trained as a hunter. Not a selective werewolf hunter; not an animal hunter: he hunted all the things that went bump in the night. At least he used to. His dad had brought them out of the life when Stiles was 14, no more upping and going on ‘road trips’ during the school year. No more of the weirdness and the life or death situation; no more sticking their necks out for each other; no more. That was until Scott was bitten. Then Stiles had been thrown back into the life he thought he had left behind.

After quitting hunting Stiles had found himself swallowing Adderall to function properly. He had become hooked on the adrenaline he got from hunting, and now, his typical school boy self wasn’t getting anywhere near his adrenaline requirements. A game of lacrosse isn’t enough. Not when you’re used to fight or flight. John had watched many family friends killed in the hunting business so when Stiles turned 14 he did everything he could to remove from the life. Stiles didn’t want people to know about his past. He didn’t want the looks and the stares and the disgust. He didn’t even want to think about the hard questions he would have to answer if the others found out; if anyone found out.

For every time he had been kidnapped and beaten for the good of the pack, all he would have needed to do was admit who he was, defend himself and he would have escaped. But Stile’s was stubborn. He wasn’t going to give in, he didn’t want to acknowledge that part of his life. It was dead. Dead and buried. If he had only protected himself some things would never had gotten so bad. But he had refused. He refused to admit to who he was, even to protect himself. He had no problem using his research skills to help Scott and the rest of the pack, but the idea of using his physical knowhow, the reactions that came easier than breathing sometimes, to protect himself never occurred to Stiles; not even when those around begged him to use it. Self-preservation isn’t something Stiles valued. It’s a hunting thing. A ‘real’ hunter thing; the werewolf hunters wouldn’t see it that way; of course their lives were important. You always think you’re important until you watch friends bleed to death; until you had dealt with demons for information and then had to fight for your soul back; until you fought invisible monsters and watched as bloodthirsty ghosts tore young women limb from limb. People always thought they were important until they realised they weren’t. When everything you had ever loved was brutally clawed away from you and you could do nothing to prevent it, it was hard to imagine you were important. Even the most stubborn or people tended to realise then.

Once you had been thrown against a wall; cut through the chest with blades longer and wider than Kanima claws; cut down with bullets; and concussed so badly there was a chance you weren’t getting up, you would understand. But Stiles didn’t expect the others to understand that he didn’t want to protect himself. So he couldn’t tell them, he couldn’t explain how he meant so little but they meant so much. There was no way anyone else would die on his watch. He would sacrifice himself if it meant he could protect his friends that little bit longer. He would do everything in his power to help them, protect them: as long as they survive.

When Gerard kidnapped Stiles and beat him Stiles did nothing to protect himself. He didn’t because with every blow Stiles received, it was a blow that Erica and Boyd didn’t. Even though they had caused him pain he still wanted to protect them. He always would.

It was after the last time that Stiles had been kidnapped; he had been beaten badly, dried blood covering his face, his right eye swollen shut, broken ribs and more cuts hidden behind the blood stained t-shirt. It was 50 minutes before school started that Scott found him. Jackson, Boyd and Scott came barrelling through the doors of where his kidnappers had him held. They had left hours earlier, leaving Stiles broken and bloody on the floor of the freezing warehouse, leaving him to die. Stiles himself was waiting, and he would wait until he was strong enough to move. There was no more danger, he knew that, so why hurt himself further when he only had to wait a little bit longer and he would have the strength to go on.

“Stiles!” Scott cried when he saw his best friend collapsed on the ground. He left Jackson and Boyd to take care of any threat that may come their way and rushed straight to his side. One arm underneath Stiles arms he helped him out of there completely unaware of just how conscious Stiles was. Between the three of them they got Stiles into the car and were off driving home. And Stiles let them; he kept silent and let them think he was unconscious; let them think he was helpless. He let them because occasionally it was nice to be wanted, nice to be cared for, nice to be worried about.

The car pulled into the driveway of the Stilinski household. The street was lined with cars belonging to the rest of the Pack and other in the know on-lookers. Scott and Jackson left the car first, supporting Stiles into the house; Boyd followed up the rear. As soon as the front door was closed the Pack began questioning Stiles about his kidnapping, the Sherriff was not quite as accommodating to the teenagers as Stiles was.

“Enough,” The Sherriff called; he had caught a look, a proper look, at his son and seen the state he was in. He knew Stiles wouldn’t want to talk; ever since Claudia died if anything bad ever happened Stiles had always just wanted to clean himself up and move on, that was his choice. Stiles wanted wanted to bury it, bury the beating and the pain. That’s what John would have done; it’s a family trait. “Let’s get you upstairs and get you cleaned up kid.”

“I’ll help.” Melissa McCall offered, she was here as moral support for the Sherriff as well as a concerned mother for both Scott and Stiles.

“Thank you Melissa, but that’s really not necessary. Looks worse than it is, right son?” The Sherriff clamped a hand down onto Stiles’s shoulder to emphasise his words. Stiles didn’t even flinch.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. How long is it til school starts?” His voice was hoarse from the screaming he had done, when the pain had been too much for him to remain silent.

“30 minutes.” Lydia was the first to respond to his question; the others all stared on with a disbelief that anyone would be able to get on with life after this. The constant attacks on Stiles seemed to horrify them more than him.

“See you in 20,” A feint smile left Stiles’ lips. He couldn’t let them see the pain he was harbouring. He couldn’t let them get that close. “Better get the coffee started Dad.” At John’s laugh Stiles turned to the stairs and made about heaving his injured frame up the stairs as gracefully as possible. He needed to look okay otherwise this wouldn’t work; and his sanity resided on it working. On the day being normal; and all the ones after that being as normal as they possibly could.

Once he was upstairs Stiles shut himself in the bathroom. A spare pair of jeans was already on the floor in there, thrown in by whichever thoughtful soul had been thinking that far ahead. He pulled his shirt gingerly over his head, his trousers and boxers following suit to the pile of bloodstained clothes now building in the corner of the room. The jeans were quickly replaced on his waist. Showering was hardly his most pressing concern. His gaze raised to the mirror he saw his battered face staring back at him. But he ignored it. His eyes drifted south, following the planes of muscle and scar tissue. Each cut symbolising a different battle he had had, had faced alone. And now was no different. He placed a hand on the broken bone of his ribs and breathed in deep. Yes it hurt but nothing was out of shape, he could feel that. He wrapped up his middle in clean white bandages, a pristine clean material that had been in his bathroom since the last time he had been tortured. His dad had thought best of it. Silently moving the reminder of the old days back into the room they both used so frequently as a way of saying ‘it’s okay, whatever you’ve got to do; you do it’.

Once his ribs were tightly wrapped, bandages covering his torso, hiding the paling scars that were there from a time before, he turned his attention to his face. Water splashed over the dried blood coating his features; having to scrub hard on various areas to get to see the actual damage. His swollen eye as already beginning to go down: a cold flannel held there for five minutes and the swelling was almost completely gone. He was no longer bleeding and the pain was no longer unbearable. He glanced at the clock and saw that he still had 7 minutes until the 20 he had given himself were up.

He moved from the bathroom to his bedroom, more than aware that all the werewolves in the living room could hear his movements. Stiles was startled, but not the least bit surprised to find his Dad sitting on his desk chair.

“So...”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He was free to talk up here, for even the wolves wouldn’t be able to hear into his bedroom.

“You don’t have to.”

“Good.”

“Son, you’ll have to start helping yourself sometime.”

“Sometime isn’t today.” Stiles was rummaging in his dresser for a shirt, anything long sleeved that would cover the majority of the marks on his arms.

“Here,” The Sherriff said, throwing an off white long sleeve at his son. “Tell me one thing,” Stiles pulled the shirt over his head, quickly, even though it hurt that bit more, and raised an eyebrow at his father, “You could have gotten out, couldn’t you? You know, if you’d tried.”

Stiles snorted and went about his business. Minutes later John got the message, he figured out that Stiles wasn’t going to respond and headed back to the waiting crowd downstairs.

“He’s okay.” A collective breath of relief was let go by those waiting for news. Stiles came down the stairs not much later. As the 20 minutes he had given himself were up, for Stiles didn’t do late: late lost lives. He drank the mug of coffee his Dad had set out for him and scoured around for something to eat. Eventually ready to leave with the others, ready for school. It was on the way out the door that Stiles turned to his father; continuing their conversation from earlier, well aware that the others had no idea what he was going on about.

“Dad,” The Sherriff looked at him, “Of course I could.” The Sherriff smiled then, watched quite happily as his son got into his awaiting Jeep and went off to school. Alone again out there in the big bad world, but John wasn’t worried; even if Chris and Melissa thought it rather odd to see the Sherriff smiling now of all times.

The school day passed uneventfully: Stiles spend the time pretending his bruises were cool, war wounds that he was proud to display. Nothing could be further from the truth. He could feel the werewolves watching him: wanting to protect him. And that was fine; at least it was until the day ended and Derek pulled up. Wordlessly snatching Stiles’s keys and throwing them to Boyd, telling him to go watch over the Sherriff and directing Stiles into his car. They ended up at the Hale house.

Derek was rough, brash, but Stiles was faster. While Derek was manhandling Stiles into a chair, where he was very quickly tied down, restrained: the worst thing that could possibly be done to someone who had escaped very similar circumstances only hours before. But Derek did it. Stiles was half way to fighting against the man he had at one point called a friend when his brain caught up. This was where he was faster. Stiles was more than capable of doing damage to the alpha wolf. He had surprise on his side and he was angry. Angrier than he had been in a long time; and if there was one things his friends should probably have figured out by now: Stiles was very dangerous when he was angry.

And so Stiles let Derek tie him up. Let him force him roughly into the chair. He ignored the pain in his ribs, the bone was now definitely out of line, instead he watched. He watched as Derek tied him up and he kept his gaze on him as he stepped away.

“You need to know how to protect yourself; Stiles you need to know how to escape.” If only he knew the truth Stiles couldn’t help but think as he looked at the werewolf. “You are going to start training with the Argents tomorrow.” He placed a knife in Stiles’ hand. What happens when there is no knife? Stiles’ brain was working hard but he kept the mask in place. “Allison can get out in 15 minutes now. You will do it in 10.”

Derek moved from Stiles’s line of sight, but they both kept a mark on the other. Stiles knew that Derek was 3 meters behind him, slightly to the left; he also knew that Derek’s eyes would not leave his injured form. Stiles refused to move. He did not need to justify his actions to anyone let alone this man, he was done playing the weakling but he still wasn’t ready to be the Stiles he once had yet.

As the hours passed he fought to keep his breathing even, he could feel the misaligned bone digging into his lung. It was pressing down hard and Stiles could do nothing in his tied up position. He could get out, of course. He always could. But he was not going to move. Night set outside and still the scene inside the house did not change. The cold breeze that was dancing between the trees flew between the pillars of the house and found a victim. The cold did nothing to help his ribs. It did nothing to help the open wound that had closed in his hours on the warehouse floor but reopened at Derek’s harsh touch. Stiles had said nothing the whole time. And he didn’t say anything. Not when the sound of cars pulling up outside carried into the house. Not when he felt Derek get up and angrily address the people outside. He only chuckled slightly when he heard his father’s angry voice, he could see it as if he was out there with them. The Sherriff invading Derek’s space completely and telling him how out of order he was. He heard Derek’s he needs to learn response. He could feel John’s exasperation seep through the walls.

“What’s he learning tonight then?” Stiles heard John ask Derek.

“How to escape from bindings, Allison can do it in 15 minutes, she’s been learning.” Derek said and Stiles could almost hear him nod at Chris.

“It’s perfectly safe John, I promise.” The Sherriff looked at them both incredulously.

“And I suppose he just sat down and let you tie him up.”

“Well, no, not exactly.”

The Sherriff had adopted a menacing tone he usually kept for demons as he spoke to Derek now. “How vicious were you Derek, did you spare a thought for his broken ribs, the cuts all over his body, the bruises the damage you’ve probably made worse!” The surprised gasps that came from most of the crowd: Allison, Erica, Issac, Scott, Lydia; were audible to Stiles even know as he was getting less and less oxygen.

“But, he was fine.” Jackson said. That confirmed it for the Sherriff, he took off into the house: finding Stiles easily enough. The rest of the pack filed in just in time to watch the knife Derek had placed in Stiles’s hand those hours earlier fall to the ground as his head lolled to the side. For the first time in 72 hours Stiles was completely unconscious and he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon unless he got oxygen into his body fast. His whole face was blue and he resembled a corpse quite clearly.

The wolves looked horrified but the Sherriff, as much as he hated to admit it, had seen his son in worse states than this. While the others, even the famous hunter Chris Argent, all stood frozen with shock John snatched the knife off the floor and cut the bindings around Stiles’s wrists. Once unbound he grabbed the boy’s shoulders and helped him to the ground: it was then he demanded help from the teens.

“Scott, Allison come here.” The teens followed numbly. Following John’s direction they quickly had Stiles’ limbs pinned to the ground, it was then that he grabbed the knife again and cut away the shirt and bandages that covered Stiles’ chest. The scars there were evident from the contrast in skin tone; John couldn’t deny the desire to let the Pack think that the scars and suffering evident on Stiles’ body was they fault; thus far they had done nothing for his son. Why should be reduce their misery? He spotted the protruding bone and while the objections from Melissa said that they should phone an ambulance John just lent on the bone. It popped back into place and John was able to start forcing oxygen back into Stiles’ body. Minutes later the colour was returning to his face and then, within 10 minutes John had instructed Allison and Scott to release his limbs allowing the boy to wake up for the first time in days unrestrained and free to move. It was then that John turned his attention back to Derek. “Any more stunts like this I will end you. I don’t care who you are or how fast you run. I will kill you.” The pregnant pause hung in the air as the Sherriff took a deep breath. “Isn’t it bad enough that those out for your pack hurt Stiles so much but now you need to do it too?”

“Dad, leave it.” Stiles spoke, quite a few of the pack seemed relieved that he was able to breathe at all let alone talk. But the Sherriff turned back towards his ailing son, pulled off his jacket and handed it to the teen. A wise decision for there were some rather nasty scars on Stiles’ back, scars John had watched being put there. Once Stiles was safely wrapped up in the jacket he accepted the Sherriff’s outstretched hand and together they made their way out to the car.

Day’s passed before it was insisted on that Stiles began training with Lydia and Allison. He refused. At first this was allowed, and then he was forced. But still he remained idle. Refusing point blank to take part in any of the situations they had been put in. Eventually the pack gave up. But Chris Argent was still insistent.

So he and Derek approached the school and gave some speech about how important it was that the kids learnt to defend themselves, they never knew where they could find themselves etc. So it was decided that the following Friday the students in Scott, Allison and Stiles year would be taking part in a self-defence course. Chris and Derek thought there was no way Stiles could refuse to take part in a school event and still maintain his impeccable record.

So Friday rolled around and at the end of homeroom the students were ushered into the gymnasium. It was then that Derek and Chris began their carefully planned ‘self defence’ course. Somehow all the way until after lunch Stiles was able to avoid taking part. He would watch the others and opt to give up his turn to let someone else have another go. Of course this didn’t go amiss with the pack. So first thing after lunch Stiles was called to the front. Right there in front of everyone.

“They are lots of perverse people in the world.” Chris began, “Unfortunately the risk of being chained up and in a vulnerable position is increasing rather than declining. Stiles is going to help us demonstrate this.”

Derek chained him to the wall. If Stiles wasn’t so angry with him, for almost killing him, thinking he was helping when Stiles clearly did not want it then he may have been more co-operative. They left him there, alone in front of the school, chained by his arms to the gymnasium wall. The rest of the student body began to gather around as Chris started to explain how to escape chains like these.

“If you use a small piece of metal in the locks and wiggle it the lock will eventually come loose.” It was nothing to do with eventually. Stiles knew that it involved picking the lock. Something he had been doing since he was seven years old, his Mom has taught him how, it was something they could do together from her hospital bed. It was then that Chris placed a small rod of metal into Stiles hand. “Over to you now Stiles.” And then he folded his arms and stepped away.

At first it looked as if Stiles was trying to get into a better position to pick the lock, but then the small bit of metal hit the floor. The sound of it echoed around the silent gymnasium, it was followed ever so quickly by a quiet “No,” Stiles was not going to take part in their games.

It was then that Derek lost it. “You need to learn to protect yourself Stiles. You can’t be idle. You’ve got to do something. You can’t wait around waiting for someone else to save you!” He shouted it at Stiles, and Stiles was ready to ignore the seething wolf. Well he was until he said that Stiles was always waiting around for someone to save him.

Stiles strained against the chains, using strength quite a lot of the school didn’t know he had to pull himself way from the wall into Derek’s face. “Don’t talk to me about saving Derek. I never asked any of you to save me. Maybe I didn’t want to be saved.”

“Stiles!” The call came from the doors to the car park. In the doorway stood the Sherriff; he had gotten Stiles text minutes earlier and headed straight to the school. Stiles had text John a code they had developed from their hunting days. John, knowing that nothing as disastrous could be causing Stiles’ problems today had guessed it would be Derek and Chris at their old tricks. He had headed straight over to his sons aid.

Derek stepped away from the seething boy as the Sherriff drew nearer. The students were on edge, it seemed obvious that something was going to happen but they could not be sure what, so they waited and watched.

“Mr Argent, Mr Hale,” The Sherriff greeted the other men.

“Afternoon Sherriff, I trust you don’t object to us teaching the students a bit of survival skills. We brought Stiles here out to try this one because he didn’t seem to interested in our stations this morning.” Chris said, in a mockingly chirpy tone, given that John’s son was currently chained to the wall.

“None at all, I think it’s a fine idea. Of course the students do have the ability to decline. You can’t force them into doing anything in a public school environment. This isn’t the army Mr Argent.” A few of the students snickered at the Sherriff’s words. “Now Stiles, how unlike you, why didn’t you take part in the workshop?” John kept his voice level as he turned to direct his seething son.

Stiles was too angry to respond, John recognised the tell tale signs that Stiles was getting close to snapping, he had seen it many times before. It seemed like the insistent men would have their way.

“Stiles,” He focused on John as he heard his name, resigning himself to the situation he was now in. “I don’t have the key son, and I don’t think they are going to let you out. They will eventually I suppose, but I need to go now. So I’d suggest getting down yourself, if you want to.” The Sherriff didn’t turn his back, there was no need to look away, for he knew Stiles had finally been pushed too far. He was going to get himself down. And then he was probably going to make Derek’s life a living hell. But John thought that was his problem, Stiles was never clumsy enough to get caught.

Using his abdominal muscles and gingerly contracting his newley healed rid Stiles pulled his waist up to face level were he used his teeth to pull his belt out of his jeans. They fell a little bit lower as he lowered his hips to where they had been hanging. The students watched on with intrigue as Stiles flicked his head to the side, the edge of the belt being grasped by the fingers on his left hand. He shimmied his fingers along the leather before making quick work of the shackles with the metal clasp. As the shackle came loose with an almighty clank he swung round fingers grasping to the other lock and picking it just as quickly. Once the padlocks had released him Stiles fell to the ground. He caught sight of Derek in his peripheral vision and turned to him.

“I am more than capable of looking after myself and I don’t need to be taught how to do it by a man with one kind of specialty.” His voice was low and it was menacing. The way Stiles never normally addressed anyone. But today was different. Today was the day he was willing to accept that who he was is who he will always be. There was no differentiating between them, no way to put it behind him. Today was the day he became a weapon for the pack and the last of the days he put others before himself. Today Stiles realised that he wasn’t a boy in a bad situation, he was a weapon, highly skilled and able to act as easily as if to breath. And whether the pack liked it or not. He was just as powerful as, and if not more dangerous than, the alpha.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always appreciated :D Thank you for reading!


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